


Sweetly Spiced

by fadagaski



Category: The Old Guard (Movie 2020)
Genre: Canon Compliant, Competence Kink, Fluff, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-16
Updated: 2020-12-16
Packaged: 2021-03-11 00:41:31
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,338
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28106442
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fadagaski/pseuds/fadagaski
Summary: Nicky and Joe argue over a coffee on the Vadestedet in Aarhus at Christmas, but not all is as it seems.
Relationships: Joe | Yusuf Al-Kaysani/Nicky | Nicolò di Genova
Comments: 18
Kudos: 75
Collections: The Old Guard Gift Exchange 2020





	Sweetly Spiced

**Author's Note:**

  * For [kaydeefalls](https://archiveofourown.org/users/kaydeefalls/gifts).



The last time Nicky was in Aarhus, it was June 1816 - the year without summer - and he’d been wrapped up warm, then, too. It’s difficult to compare the temperature of December 2017 with a couple of weeks two hundred years ago, though. All he knows is that his nose tip is cold and his fingers have bleached white.

 _Mediterranean softie_ , Andy has scoffed at him more than once in his long life. _If it isn’t gelato weather, you don’t know how to cope._

Ever a gentleman, Nicky has never once pointed out that Andy suffers miserably in any climate found between the two Tropics.

Nicky is just one of many sat on a frigid metal chair looking out over the canal’s gunmetal waters in the shadow of buildings a quarter his age, strung with colourful lights and wreaths, trees festooned with baubles at their bases. Despite - or more likely _because_ \- of the season, the Vadestedet is fairly crowded with people taking a mid-afternoon break from their Christmas shopping. Behind him, a mother surrounded by bags argues against her three young children campaigning for ice cream. To his left, an old man feeds crumbs to the faithful, half-blind dog under his chair. To his right, on the table past the university student bent over her books, twitches Nicky’s target: a well-dressed businessman with stylishly spiked blond hair and a black leather briefcase by his feet.

Booted footsteps approach from Nicky’s blind spot, but he recognises them almost before he registers their sound. “Here, beloved.” Joe slides a large coffee onto the wrought iron table, steam wisping through the narrow hole in the lid. He takes the seat opposite, one leg stretching out to nudge at Nicky’s ankle, his own coffee cradled loosely in one hand. He has such lovely lines, Nicky thinks, the grace of his long arms and the delicate flex of his thumbs. Even wrapped up warm against the Danish winter, the beauty of his form is easy to behold.

“Thank you, my love,” Nicky murmurs. He holds the cardboard cup in both hands to let the heat seep into the bones of his numb fingers. Over Joe’s shoulder, the blond businessman scans the crowd intently.

“Any change?” Joe asks, swirling his coffee before he takes a sip. He winces at the heat and licks his top lip in the seconds it takes to heal. Nicky hides his smile behind his cup. For as long as he has known him, Joe has _always_ rushed the first mouthful, despite the burn.

“No,” he says to Joe’s question. “They are perhaps running late.”

“Or they chickened out.”

Nicky inclines his head. “Perhaps.”

The mother behind Nicky finally capitulates on the issue of ice cream, to the cheers of her children, which sets the dog barking until the old man puts down a saucer of tea for her.

“Here we go,” Joe says, dark eyes tracking someone out of Nicky’s sight. The man brushes past their table - black peacoat, brown slicked hair, one of those big bushy beards that have come back into fashion this decade - and sits opposite Nicky’s target. “Contact?” Joe asks.

“Sì.”

Nicky holds his cup against his mouth, breathing in the steam while he watches the two men. Their body language is stiff, the conversation virtually non-existent. The bearded one tries to intimidate by sprawling in his chair. The blond scans the Vadestedet again before he clumsily nudges his briefcase forward. It collapses and the bearded one has to bend over to right it.

“They are very bad at this,” Nicky comments.

Joe laughs. “Makes our job a lot easier.”

“Mm.” Nicky sips his coffee, licking the frothed milk from his lip, pondering the flavour that Joe has chosen for him this time. “Gingerbread?”

“‘Tis the season and all that,” Joe says. “Now?”

The two businessmen stand and shake hands.

“Now,” Nicky says.

Joe leaps to his feet. “Goddamnit, Nicolai!” he roars in Danish, smashing his cup to the floor. “Every time we have the same conversation! Enough! I can’t do this anymore!”

All around, people turn to stare at Joe, his face crumpled in pain, while Nicky sits there wide-eyed and stunned. He holds up his hands, eyes flicking to the gawkers: the old man and his dog, the mother and her children, the student, the businessmen, and more beyond. “Sweetheart,” he soothes, also in Danish. “Not here.”

“Not here? No? Why not? You don’t want them all to see?” There are actual tears glimmering in Joe’s eyes. Nicky’s heart lurches in his chest. He rises to his feet, arms outstretched to hug Joe.

“Please -”

Joe bats his arms away. “No! Don’t touch me! I don’t - I can’t -” He turns and stumbles away, both hands scrubbing at his face as he weaves around the student’s table, half-turns to apologise and trips backwards into the businessmen. Nicky can only watch as the two men help Joe right himself with much mumbling apology.

And then Joe is gone.

Slowly, Nicky sinks into his cold metal chair again. The noise around him picks up to a high buzz, the kids asking their mother loudly what the fight was about, the old man tutting under his breath, the student shooting dirty looks at Nicky. Chuckling uneasily, the businessmen shake hands again and leave in opposite directions.

Nicky gives it another five minutes, finishing his sweetly spiced coffee in short little sips to pace himself. He can hardly sit still. It feels like there’s something quivering and sinister in his belly. His fingers itch.

When he finally stands again, deliberately ignoring the side-glances aimed at him by curious witnesses, the heavy grey clouds release their first flurry of snow. The children shriek with joy. Nicky smiles to hear it. Stuffing his hands in his coat pockets, he picks his way around scattered chairs and milling patrons, heading away from the canal towards the shops on Immervad. The layout of Aarhus has changed a little in two centuries, yes, but all Nicky has to do is follow the strings of lights and the sound of feet pounding the pavement in search of the next purchase.

He comes through an alley, emerging out the other side under an arch of glowing gold. He has a lot of thoughts about Christmas and the traditions that have sprung up around it, but he can admit there’s something charming about decorating a whole city for people to enjoy.

“Hello stranger,” says a welcome voice just before a pair of arms slide under his to wrap around his middle.

Nicky rests his head against Joe’s where it peeks over his shoulder. “You were successful then?”

“Mission accomplished,” Joe says, nosing at the hinge of Nicky’s jawline.

Turning in Joe’s embrace, Nicky encloses Joe in his arms, grateful this job went down in Denmark and not Dubai where seeking comfort like this would be a good deal more risky. They stand pressed together for a long moment just absorbing each other’s warmth. It’s not the first time they’ve faked a fight for a job, and there’s nothing that needs to be said that hasn’t been said a dozen times before, but it helps to reconnect afterwards, the physical assurance that this, between them, is solid and real.

They separate when Joe’s phone buzzes in his pocket where it’s pressed to Nicky’s belly. “That’ll be Booker,” Joe says. He digs his phone out, holding it so they both can see the screen.

**Tracking. Move tonight.**

“A free afternoon,” Nicky murmurs.

Eyes alight with mischief, Joe grins at him. “Whatever shall we do?”

Nicky’s smile comes softer but no less felt. He takes Joe’s hand in his, brings it to his lips to kiss the gentle curving knuckles. “Walk with me?”

Joe’s breath stutters, a mist of white between them as the snow begins to fall in earnest through the draping golden lights. “Anywhere,” he says, fervent. A quick kiss, brush of cold noses, fingers squeezing. “Nicky. Anywhere you go, I go.”

“My heart,” Nicky says. “We are one.”

**Author's Note:**

> Happy holidays kaydeefalls and to all a good night!!


End file.
